Convergence
by Gorgolo Chick
Summary: When the others each in turn treat him harshly during a crisis, will Hobbes' psychological and emotional instabilities overcome his confidence and lead him to act out his despair? What special plan and weapon has he had hidden away for years?


Title: Convergence

Author: Gorgolo Chick

E-mail: 

Genre: Angst

Episode Spoilers: 'Separation Anxiety'

Rating: PG for adult theme and language

Disclaimer: This story is intended for entertainment purposes only. No intent exists to infringe on the rights of the owners of The Invisible Man. The author makes no profit.

Archive: Please ask me.

Summary: When the others each in turn treat him harshly during a crisis, will Hobbes' psychological and emotional instabilities overcome his confidence and lead him to act out his despair?

Convergence

by Gorgolo Chick

The nineteenth century poet Elizabeth Akers Allen wrote _"Behold, we live through all things - famine, thirst, bereavement, pain; all grief and misery, all woe and sorrow; life inflicts its worst on soul and body - but we cannot die, though we be sick and tired and faint and worn - lo, all things can be borne!"_ Hardest to bear is rejection from those we love. Whether we can live through that, well; Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer-Lytton, another poet from that era, said _"Yet all that poets sing and grief hath known of hopes laid waste, knells in that word ALONE!"_

Hobbes was watching his favorite James Cagney movie on the late show. Cagney might have played a lot of bad guys, hell he was a crook in this one, but you really had to appreciate the way the little guy stood up for himself. That was one tough hombre. The man had balls the size...

Somebody began pounding on his door. Hobbes reached into the magazine rack beside the sofa and pulled out the handgun hidden there. Even at home, he was never comfortable unless he knew he had some defense at hand. He glided across the room silently and snuck a quick look out the peephole before dodging to the side to consider what he'd seen.

BROCK? What the hell did the naval criminal investigations officer who had married his ex-wife want with him? Sure, they'd managed to end their last encounter on a surprisingly good note. It didn't hurt; well it had hurt a hell of a lot at the time; that Hobbes had taken a bullet that would have killed Brock if not for his quick intervention.

But that had not, thankfully, made Brock feel so grateful that he kept in contact with Hobbes. So what in the world was he doing outside Hobbes' front door after midnight?

Hobbes opened the door, and immediately decided he didn't care for the haunted look on Brock's face, or the redness rimming his eyes. Hell, Brock was the ultimate egotistical navy stud. What could make him not only cry, but not even try to hide the fact from a guy like his wife's ex?

"She's dead, Hobbes."

The statement was clear enough. But it made absolutely no sense. The words might as well have been gibberish.

"Can I come in? I am so tired, but I thought you ought to know right away. Vivian was killed in a car accident this afternoon."

Hobbes stood back to let the tall, handsome, younger man enter.

"I don't get it. Viv's what? She had an accident?" Hobbes followed Brock back into the living room and stood over him when he practically crumpled onto the sofa.

"Hobbes, a fuel truck and a tractor trailer rig had a smashup on the freeway. Vivian was right behind the fuel truck, and when it exploded her car was covered in burning gasoline. She wasn't able to get out, and nobody could get to her. She's dead."

He realized he was beginning to shudder, and suddenly he didn't care that Brock was staring at him. He stumbled a few steps, groping for the nearest chair, and sank into it.

"I'm so sorry, Hobbes. I thought you had a right to hear it from me."

"Was she killed instantly?"

Suddenly the tears were streaming down Brock's face again.

"They... they don't think so. Witnesses said they could hear her screaming. Oh, God." Brock buried his face in his hands. "They think she was burned alive, Bobby."

Suddenly it was Hobbes who was screaming. He wasn't even sure what he was saying, but it must have been pretty disturbing, from the stricken look Brock gave him. At least it got him out of the apartment quickly. Hobbes was left alone again with the sound of James Cagney screaming at the cops. Blindly, he grabbed for the remote and managed to hit the off button before the rage and pain boiling up within him made him throw it through the tube. In the sudden silence he sank to the floor.

Maybe he should have called in to say he couldn't come to work. But he couldn't just sit around the apartment, thinking about Viv, thinking about what it must have been like for her. Besides, he vaguely remembered that he had a meeting with the Official and Eberts this morning. It was quarterly review time, and the boss and his yes-man aide loved to take him apart at such times more than any other. At least this time they couldn't very well bother him, whatever load of crap they tried to dump on him. It might even throw them off their game when he made no move to request that raise he'd had coming for more than a few years.

Hobbes opened the glass-paneled door to the Official's office, noticing for some reason how badly the numbers, 202, painted on it needed to be redone. Hell, the whole building needed a good scrubbing and paint job, as well as new linoleum in the halls. That theirs was the red-headed stepchild of all intelligence agencies was more obvious in the headquarters they were stuck in than anywhere else. It was really an awfully depressing place to work, although normally he thought the age and grime gave it all character.

They were waiting for him like a pair of hyenas watching a crippled antelope walk into their midst. Well, they could do their worst; today nothing they said would seem important, compared to the tragedy he was contemplating.

He was wrong, of course. As always, Eberts started the review by pulling out files on the cases he'd been on recently, and running down the list making it sound like everything that had gone wrong had been solely due to foul-ups by Hobbes, and anything that went right attributable to the Agency's wonderful invisible agent, Hobbes' punk partner, Darien Fawkes. Well, too bad you could be sure the credit wouldn't be flowing so effusively when they next spoke to Fawkes. The kid could stand an occasional kind word from the Official, instead of another jerk on the leash.

But they weren't through there. They didn't seem to pay any attention to the fact that this time he didn't bother to put in the effort to defend himself. Instead, they went straight into the old song and dance about the ongoing budget crunch. Then they really got personal. Suddenly he realized what they were saying. Not only were they calling him useless, they were saying something about his salary, his paltry, puissant salary being money that could better be used to help with hiring new agents. He wasn't even sure he took it all in, but whatever he said in reply must have been enough to satisfy them. At least, he found himself walking back to his office feeling even more numb than before.

Fawkes was there, his leg hanging over the arm of Hobbes' desk chair. He had his right arm held up before his face, and sighed melodramatically when the older agent entered the room. Before the younger agent even started, Hobbes knew this was going to be a complaint about the counteragent. Well, Fawkes had a right. Stuck with that wacko gland in his brain that allowed him to become invisible, but also threatened him with insanity if he didn't get regular shots of a chemical counteragent to the 'quicksilver' the gland produced, that was a bunch of crap. And that his own brother had been the scientist who'd stuck him with it, and then been murdered before he could remove it again – that just made it worse. Bobby reminded himself that as tough as his own life was, Fawkes' was worse. And one of the few bright spots in either of their lives was that they had one another's friendship and caring.

"I'm really starting to hate this stupid tattoo, and the color red," Fawkes muttered without taking his eyes off the tattoo-like monitor that tracked the levels of quicksilver in his bloodstream. "I can't believe I need another shot already. It's your fault, you know. You could have snuck up on those guys perfectly well without me having to pull the see-through gig and building my levels. Why the hell do I have to be stuck with a guy who's the poster child for paranoia and mental disorders in general, huh?"

Despite that unhelpful beginning, Hobbes still felt he had to talk to someone before he lost his mind, so he sat down on the edge of his own desk and waited for Fawkes to look at him. When that didn't happen, he spoke.

"Fawkes, I kinda' need to talk to you."

Now he did look up. His eyes narrowed.

"Look, don't even get started. I am not going to take the blame for whatever screwups the 'Fish and Eberts have been yelling at you about. Damn it Hobbes, do you have any idea how much it sucks to be stuck with you as a partner? You'd think sticking me with the damn invisibility gland and about a million needles a year would be enough, but no, they decided 'let's give him a man who's about a dozen bricks shy of a load to work with day in and day out. Hell, my whole fucking life sucks, you know that?"

Fawkes shoved his way out of the chair and headed for the door. "Time to go get a couple of cc's of battery acid shoved in my arm." He stormed out.

He couldn't have meant that. Could he? He was just in a bad mood because he had to take his counteragent shot. Hobbes knew the stuff hurt some going in. Fawkes usually managed to cover it up, but everybody was entitled to be in a bad mood and blow off steam once in a while.

Except, was that really what that had been all about? It sounded more like hitting the end of your rope. It sounded like a man letting go with an opinion he had been holding back for too long. And he was right. Even when he remembered to take all of his meds on time, Hobbes knew he was still nuts and not, as Fawkes had been known to say before, a pleasant working environment.

Hobbes had just been living in a delusional state of imagining that it was all said in humor. That it was just part of the banter they used to relieve tension. How incredibly frustrating must it have been for Fawkes that his nutso partner couldn't even buy a clue about how miserable working with him day in and day out was.

"Crap." He sank into the empty chair and let himself really think about all the comments he'd brushed off as nothing.

And all this time he'd stupidly let himself think that Fawkes put out so much effort to get along with him because he liked him. It was all really because Fawkes didn't like to hurt the feelings of even a jerk like him. The slowly rising sense of nausea even pushed out of his mind for a little while all thoughts of his grief.

He still really needed to talk to someone. He thought about going to see The Keeper, as soon as he was sure she had finished administering Fawkes' shot. At least Claire was always understanding and kind. Just being around Claire for a little while would make him feel better. She would understand how devastating Viv's death was, but she wouldn't make a big production of it, or push him to talk more than he was ready to. She'd just listen, and she was smart enough to help him get a perspective on things. He headed down to the Keep, to see the one person he was still sure wouldn't mind having him around.

Hobbes was running late this morning. Darien had already stood around for half an hour so that they could go in to see the Official together. That way, the boss would just assume their tardiness was Darien's fault, and need never find out that for once it was the senior member of the team who was responsible. He certainly owed it to the guy, after busting his chops yesterday the way he did. Just because he was sick to death of taking the regular counteragent shots - damn it, they hurt! - was no excuse for going off like that at his best, his only real friend. But if he didn't go in soon, Eberts would come looking anyway, and the cat would be out of the bag.

With a sigh, Darien began walking up the hall toward room 202.

Claire was in there, probably reporting on the progress of the Agency's pet lab rat, namely himself. Well, he'd certainly been pitching a big enough fit when he went down for that shot yesterday. Insulting Hobbes hadn't helped his humor; it had just piled a sense of guilt on top of the other irritations.

"Fawkes, you're late. Where's Hobbes?"

"Um, Hobbes is... well, Hobbes is late."

"Well, we can't very well have a briefing on your next case without both agents involved being present, now can we? Eberts, go call him. Telling him to get his butt in here now!"

"Yes sir." Eberts hurried from the room.

"Fawkes, I understand that you are not comfortable with the necessity for..."

"No, fat man, you don't even begin to understand. But I guess you try, which is something." Darien was still feeling guilty about dumping his crappy mood on his partner the previous day, so he wasn't much up to doing the same to someone else, even his insensitive bastard of a slave master.

"Well, Darien, I'm glad you've let yourself see that. We really are trying to help you in every way we can. It just isn't very easy. But you know that." Darien could swear Claire was trying to make nice exactly the same way he was. But she hadn't even chastised him for going on about the annoyances in his life yesterday. She'd been remarkably sweet and understanding. She didn't have anything to feel guilty about.

Maybe he'd raised a bigger ruckus yesterday than he realized. You'd think they'd be used to it by now, but when he really got upset, Claire and Hobbes especially always went out of their way to remind him that they were there for him. For a man with such a screwed up life, he was pretty damn lucky.

"Yeah, I do know it. I didn't have any right to yell at everybody yesterday. Thanks for understanding."

"Sir," Eberts entered the room in a rush, carrying a folded newspaper, and immediately interrupted the conversation. "I believe I have discovered the cause of Robert's absence."

"What have you got, Ebes?" Darien didn't wait for the Official to acknowledge his flunky. As Eberts held the paper so that they could see what he was pointing at, Darien noticed a slight tremor in the other man's hands.

"The obituaries?" It wasn't often that something caught the Official off guard enough for him to exclaim in surprise like that. The words made Darien flinch instinctively.

"He's not..." Darien couldn't even finish the question. Then he saw the name to which Eberts was pointing. 'Brock, Vivian Alburn'. He snatched the paper and read the column as swiftly as he could. "Oh crap," he exclaimed. "His ex-wife died the night before last. If Hobbes found out about it right away... That would explain why he seemed so off yesterday. Why didn't he say something?"

"Er. We may not have given him the opportunity. Yesterday morning was his quarterly performance review and... well, we may have been a little harsh."

"Aren't you always?" Darien snapped. But then he remembered his own behavior. "Oh, no," he moaned. "I think he was trying to talk to me about that. Or maybe about Viv. I wasn't paying any attention, and I think I... I told him to go whine to somebody else. I told him I wished I didn't have to put up with him. I said something to you, didn't I Claire, about getting pissed off at him?"

"You didn't tell me why, I just assumed he was; I don't know, I assumed it was all his fault. And when he came to see me..." She gave Darien a look that was filled with fear and regret. "I called him a 'self-centered, ineffectual little pain in the ass'." She turned her eyes to each of them in turn. "I was thinking about that research project that fell through, that could have opened up some new possibilities for getting the gland out. I took my frustration out on Bobby."

The Official shifted in his seat, with a pained expression on his face. Darien saw and responded cautiously.

"Hey, at least he's used to you two being obnoxious during his performance reviews."

"I'm afraid we were perhaps a bit more so than usual. We just had two good men quit to go into the private sector at a much higher salary, and we really can't afford to replace them. We may," he cleared his throat. "It's possible we gave Bobby the idea that his salary added to theirs could get us a couple of replacements."

"So effectively we all of us didn't just kick the dog when he was down, we pretty much bashed his head in." Darien shivered, not letting himself think just yet about what effect their actions might have had.

"This sort of precipitating event, followed by rejection from those around him, would have a major depressing effect on anyone." Claire spoke softly, a tremor in her voice. "For someone with Bobby's manic-depression, it would be magnified who knows how much. And if this has caused him to go off his meds, he's really in trouble."

"You don't think he'd... do anything to himself, do you?" Darien already knew the answer.

"With the mental state he may be in, I'm afraid we can't rule out anything. If he's not a danger to himself, he could easily become psychotic and perhaps be a danger to others."

"Then we'd better find him, fast, and straighten all this out."

"Find him, yes." The Official's voice was heavy. "But don't press him. If he hasn't broken, we don't want to push him over the edge. Eberts, go with them. Call me as soon as you have any information. Be sure you take your cell phone, so I can contact you."

The trio hurried out, leaving the Official gazing at the obituary. Brock had even had Hobbes listed among the survivors. Maybe that was prophetic.

Hobbes looked at the tiny pistol in his hand. Not a powerful weapon, not accurate at any great distance, but exactly right for his purposes. He'd thought about this action many times in the past, so he'd worked out all the possible ways of doing it, and reasons against most methods. Sure, taking his usual weapon and blowing off the top of his head would be as final as it got, but that would leave a shocking mess for someone else to have to deal with. His problems were his own, and he was, in part, trying to take them out of the way of the rest of the world. Poisons, overdoses, carbon monoxide, all such methods were too slow and unreliable. Once he began this process, he was damn well going to finish it, and not risk getting others involved or especially being stopped. He knew the proper way to slash the veins in his wrists to guarantee a quick bleed out, but again, that would leave a mess for someone to clean up, even if done in the bathtub.

No, this little beauty was his best friend, now. He'd bought the weapon, which in his opinion wasn't really good for anything else, precisely for this purpose. He couldn't even remember how many years he'd had it. Before the divorce, at some point when he was thinking Viv would be better off without him. He especially hadn't wanted her to find him dead, so he'd worked out the scheme he was finally ready to put into action. Now it was Darien and Claire he was protecting. Not that they would be upset by what he was doing, but he had no right to thrust his emotions on them. He loved them both, in his own way. It had taken a lot to make Darien stop liking him, and until that time his friendship had been a remarkable gift. Claire had never really let on before that she... that she didn't much like him. He was grateful to them both, and could only repay their goodness to him by removing himself as quietly as possible from their lives.

The problem that had disturbed him the longest was the worry that someone might steal the gun afterwards and use it for criminal purposes. But he'd solved that by altering the barrel and having special ammo made up to fit it. While he was at it he'd had the cartridges made even weaker than usual. Just to be sure the bullet didn't pass through him and leave a messy exit wound, or even by some remote chance hurt someone else. Still plenty of power to penetrate his breast bone and tear into his heart. He knew from experience that such a wound would probably not even really bleed. Neat, clean, fast, and irreversible.

He would put only one round in the cylinder. The rest he would leave in their box on his kitchen counter. He wasn't sure why, but he supposed it was some form of final statement. No one must suppose that he was being careless in any of this procedure. Bobby Hobbes' final act must not be thought to have been done in any way that could endanger others, and they might miss that he'd used a special caliber to make the gun useless to street criminals.

Carefully selected ID left on the body so that the police could contact the Agency and notify them. If the Official had an ounce of compassion in him, either he or Eberts would go to the morgue to confirm the identification, and Claire and Darien would never have to see him again - he was leaving instructions for a quiet burial ceremony, with no one but the rabbi and the gravediggers there to send him off.

The last thing out of his control was who would find him. He'd chosen as carefully as he could for that. He wished it could be a cop, used to far more violent corpses, but everywhere he considered, there was a little too much chance of interference. He finally settled on the beach. He found a nice boulder near the water's edge, high enough that the top wasn't visible from the sand, but that was clearly visible from the nearest lifeguard tower. Lifeguards were used to corpses, too, and at least he'd be a less disturbing sight than a drowned body. He had actually thought about drowning himself, but it was too chancy and he didn't want to risk being swept out to sea. Everyone had the right to certainty that he was gone, and just enough of his early training in the temple stuck with him for him to want a proper burial. It was bad enough he was leaving a damaged body, but that couldn't be helped. At least one tiny little bullet hole shouldn't matter much.

He'd have plenty of time to make his final peace with whatever might be out there watching. He wasn't going to do it until daybreak; he didn't like the idea of his mortal remains lying out for long before they were found. Get it all over with and done quickly and efficiently, and even the memory of him would be gone within a week. Nothing but disregarded boxes of his personnel file down in the Agency archives would show that he had ever even existed.

"Robert, your unexplained absence today caused some concern." Eberts wasn't looking very comfortable, standing there in the doorway to Hobbes' apartment. No surprise there; who could be comfortable around a coworker who was basically a lame duck, a pariah on the job, about to get his walking papers? Especially someone as nuts as he was. Eberts was probably afraid he'd try and take his troubles out on him.

"Sorry, Eberts. I guess I should have called in. I had some legal details to attend to."

"Ah, yes. Mrs. Brock's untimely... We did, um, see... In the newspaper, I mean..."

"Viv's obituary out already?" Bobby nodded in mild satisfaction. "Brock's a good man. No surprise he's getting everything taken care of."

"Er... I believe perhaps it would be possible for today to be made, well, an official day off for you."

"I appreciate that. Tell the Official I appreciate that."

"Well, I suppose, that is if everything is alright, I ought to get back to the office." At least Eberts didn't seem so damn nervous anymore. Probably relieved that Hobbes was taking his imminent dismissal so calmly. Just imagine what a relief he'd feel tomorrow, when he found out that Hobbes' detachment from the Agency had been short-cut with all possible efficiency and finality.

"Thank you, Eberts. Yes, I believe everything is well in hand. I just have a few other things I need to take care of. Tomorrow..." Well, it wouldn't very well do to come right out and discuss his plans for tomorrow morning. Eberts and the others would undoubtedly feel a very disquieting moral obligation to interfere.

"Yes, well, why don't we just wait and see about tomorrow? You really shouldn't feel rushed into anything."

Damn, the man could be a little less transparent about wanting Hobbes gone. Still, he couldn't be blamed.

"Goodbye, Eberts."

"Um, goodbye, Robert... Agent Hobbes." Eberts even managed to paste a not-too-phony-looking smile on his face. He walked away down the hall, and Hobbes quietly closed the door behind him.

"Ex-agent, you mean, Eberts. Robert Albert Hobbes, three time loser just like his ex-con partner, but no one has any use for him, so there won't be any last-minute reprieve. I shoulda' done this when the FBI fired me. Or at least when the CIA tossed me on my can. Damn shrinks think they know everything, but some people are just a lot better off, and the world is better off, once I'm dead."

Hobbes turned to survey the apartment. That was something else for someone to have to deal with, clearing out his apartment. Well, at least he always kept it neat, and he'd already taken care of any meaningful personal possessions. What few there were. The Agency could probably get some service to strip the place cheap and dump his stuff at one of those second hand shops Fawkes... Darien was always shopping at. Come to think of it, they could spare the expense and let the apartment manager take care of that.

He went to the corner of the room, manipulated the molding in the baseboard, and revealed the hidden safe tucked into the insulation at floor level. He'd leave this hiding place open, with all the legal documents closing down the life of Bobby Hobbes, failure extraordinaire. He badly wanted to leave some sort of farewell notes to Darien and Claire, but it just wasn't fair to push his sentimentality off on them. He pulled from his pocket the one document he was leaving that was anything like a suicide note. The lawyer hadn't much liked not being let in on what the specific contents were, but he'd been able to help Hobbes make sure there would be no legal question that the action he was about to take was considered and sanely decided upon, and done completely of his own free will. He had intended to put it with the rest of the stuff in the safe, but suddenly changed his mind.

Instead he lifted out the box of cartridges and the tiny pistol. He quickly loaded the single cartridge he needed, and set the notarized document - ha, how many people had ever left a legally correct suicide note? - on the kitchen counter, weighing it down with the small ammunition box.

That took care of the last detail, so he might as well head out to the beach. The crowds should be thinning pretty soon, and he really felt the need to meditate and contemplate the rightness of what he was doing. He wondered if it was going to be a long night, or if the moment to die would come before he knew it. It was just idle curiosity.

This world was no longer very meaningful to him. He only regretted that he had somehow screwed up the few relationships that could have been worthwhile. Viv hadn't much liked him anymore, before she died, and Darien, too, had had more than enough of him, now; he'd made that plain. And Claire... beautiful, brilliant, sexy, sweet Claire. He figured he might well love her more than he'd ever loved his ex-wife. And this paragon of woman found him annoying, maybe even a little repellent. Well, he couldn't blame her. Hell, he didn't even like himself, not one bit, so how could he expect anyone else to? At least he'd never told her he loved her. That was some comfort. He couldn't have borne the look of disgust on her face at the very thought.

He locked the door behind him and made his way down to the street. This time of day there should be a taxi or two cruising his street, dropping off people who lived in the area, taking others out shopping after work, whatever. He didn't have a right to drive the van anymore, he figured. Easier for them to pick it up from his neighborhood than from down at the beach anyway.

"What the hell is he doing now? Look, I don't care what Eberts says, I still think something's wrong here."

"Darien, of course something is wrong. He just lost someone he loved very much. He's been dealing with a lawyer about who knows what details surrounding her sudden death. Even if we hadn't upset him further, that's awfully rough to be dealing with."

"No, Claire, it's not just that. Something in my gut is just about screaming that we should be with him, giving him our support, keeping him... safe."

"But Eberts said he was pretty obvious about not wanting to be around people."

"Then why the hell is he standing on the sidewalk outside his apartment, watching traffic... You don't think he's thinking about..." Darien couldn't even finish the thought.

"Look, he's hailing that cab."

"Why the hell would he take a cab? The van is parked just up the street."

"Maybe it has something to do with whatever legal stuff he's been working on. Darien, I think you were right about checking his place over. I know Eberts said everything looked normal, but you can only see so much from the front door."

"I'm all over that. Let's get up there and see if we can figure out what is going through the little tiger's head."

The pair stepped out of the non-descript car Claire had borrowed because they hadn't wanted to make Hobbes suspicious or even uncomfortable by making it obvious someone from the Agency was keeping an eye on him. It fortunately didn't take more than ten seconds before someone came out of the building, and they were able to get in through the security door. It was amazing Hobbes wasn't made paranoid by the laxness of his building's security.

Then again, he was awfully lax about the locks on his own front door, for a man who lived under the constant strain of clinical paranoia. It took Darien less than thirty seconds to pick the lock, and they were in.

"Wow, this place is even neater than usual," Darien commented.

"I do like a man who can keep himself and his surroundings attractive and pleasant," Claire commented offhandedly.

"Is that an attack on my fashion sense and housekeeping?" Darien couldn't help smiling. It was pretty obvious that Hobbes' crush on Claire had at least a little bit of a corresponding emotion with her. It was hard not to like the guy, once you really knew him. He just let so few people really know him. "Hey, what the hell is that?" He had spotted the blue-backed legal paper on the otherwise clear kitchen counter, held down by an odd looking little box. He moved across to pick them up. Claire took the paper from him while he opened the box.

"Darien!" "Claire!"

They both exclaimed in alarm at the same instant. Darien held up several loose cartridges he'd spilled into his hand, but Claire didn't even look over. Instead she began reading aloud.

"I, Robert Albert Hobbes, do hereby certify and affirm that the actions I have taken in ending my own life have been taken totally of my own will and volition. No other parties are involved in said actions, and all responsibility rests solely with myself. I recognize that due to these actions my soundness of mind will be called into question, and I therefore state unequivocally that I take such actions only after due consideration and with calm forethought.

"Futhermore, I leave the following instructions... My God, Darien, he's planning to..." She finally looked up and saw the tiny bullets lying on his palm.

"He's going to shoot himself. Claire, we have to find him. We can't let this happen. Damn it!" He flung the handful and the box across the room violently. "I knew something was really, really wrong. I should have come up here myself to talk to him, instead of sending Eberts."

"We agreed that a more neutral approach would be less likely to upset him. After yesterday, he might have slammed the door in my or your face."

"We should have let him know we're worried. He obviously has convinced himself we don't give a damn about him, or he would never... He'd have at least left us a note, something."

"What do we do now? How do we find out where he went, how do we stop him? Oh, Darien, we have to stop him. We can't let Bobby hurt himself!"

"Maybe it's okay. Look, I noticed the number of that cab he got into. Let's call the cab company and find out where he had it take him, where he's going. Maybe we can even beat him there."

They bolted from the room together, barely pausing to close the door. Claire still clutched Hobbes' notarized suicide note in her hand, crushing it unawares.

"Okay, we found him, and he doesn't look like he's about to do anything right away." Darien and Claire stood partly behind the wall between street and beach. Hobbes was sitting on a bench about a dozen yards away, simply watching the people gather up their possessions and begin to leave.

"Now what do we do?" Claire asked.

Darien had no idea how to answer.

"I was kinda hoping you would know." He ran his fingers through his spiked hair. "We can't just walk up to him and say 'Hey, Hobbesy, we know you're planning to off yourself. Wanna talk about it?' I mean, I guess if that would work with anybody, it'd be Hobbes, but..."

"But if he's gotten his mind set on this you and I could never stop him from walking away," Claire pointed out. "And we don't know how close he might be to a complete breakdown."

"Call for backup?" Darien was more pondering possibilities than actually suggesting that move.

"And he ends up in a mental hospital, maybe for good this time?"

"Yeah. That's no good. Damn it, if it wasn't for the fact that we don't know how he's feeling about you and me, I'd say go for the direct approach anyway."

"Darien, if we could work out how he plans to actually go about it..."

"Yeah, that's the key." He turned and leaned back against the wall to think. "Alright, I assume he's here at the beach because this is where he plans to... do it. Obviously Hobbes wouldn't do it in front of witnesses, so he's waiting for the place to clear out."

"Bobby would plan out something like this in detail, so he chose the beach for a specific reason." Claire picked up the line of thought. "Why the beach?"

"I don't know. I can't think of his ever showing any particular attachment for the beach. Maybe it something to do with Viv?"

"It's possible. How much has he told you about her, about their marriage?"

"I didn't even realize he really had been married once until Viv introduced herself to me at the police station that time he got busted stalking her." Darien comforted himself with the thought that at least at that time his relationship with Hobbes had been still in the rather shaky formative stage.

"What about since then?"

"Claire, do you remember how much he was bummed out by her getting remarried? I've never dared ask, and Hobbes hasn't talked about her on his own."

"Okay, so if that's it... wait a minute, I think I've got an idea why he's here. Bobby wouldn't want to take a chance on somebody... finding him who would be traumatized, right?"

"Yeah, even now I'll bet you he's got protecting the innocent high on his list of priorities. So why the beach? I mean; families, kids, grandmas."

"But who's the most likely to be the first on the beach in the morning?"

Darien didn't get it. "Joggers?"

"Well, there is that, but I'm thinking of the life guards."

"Claire, I could kiss you! That's why he chose the beach, all right. It has to be!"

"Don't get too excited yet. How do we use that information to help Bobby?"

"Okay, so like I said, you get early morning joggers. That means he won't just stretch out on the sand and shoot himself, and risk one of them finding the body."

Claire nodded agreement and encouragement.

"And like we said, he's got to have this all planned out. Which means he's picked the exact spot, and also the time."

Now that they had finally gotten a handle on what they thought their friend's plan might be, they worked out the details swiftly.

"So we watch and wait, we stay as close as we can in case we're wrong and he sudden goes for his gun," Darien concluded. "As long as that doesn't happen we can take our time approaching him."

"Although I think perhaps only one of us should actually confront him. We don't want to excite him. And I think it should be you. You've managed to get so close to him, and hopefully your presence will help him realize that he's not alone in this. That would be a start."

"Okay, but I want you nearby just in case. You know he..." Darien suddenly didn't know if he should say what he was thinking.

"He what? Considers me a friend, too? Yes, I'm proud to say I agree with that."

"Claire, I... kind of feel like a rat telling you this, but right now we need every possible advantage. Look, I don't know if you've realized it, but just about anybody outside the two of you can see that Bobby's nuts about you. I mean, he really is at least some in love with you."

"Darien, you must be..." Claire actually looked shocked by the revelation.

"Okay, you don't believe me? It's also kind of obvious that you've been getting some pretty strong feelings for him, too."

Claire blushed furiously, but didn't even attempt to deny the statement.

"I thought I was a little better than that at hiding my feelings. God, do you think Bobby's realized it?"

"About as much as you had figured out that he wasn't just goofing when he flirted with you. But you know Hobbes Rule #9: 'No fishing off the company pier'.

"So where does that put us with this situation? He'd never believe me if I just sudden started making protestations of my affection for him."

"No, but now that you know, you can, you know, keep it in mind. If you stay nearby while I approach him, you can be ready to jump in if things start to go wrong."

"Okay. Wow. I really had no idea, I mean with Bobby who can tell if he's just teasing or if he really means something. You know how the more serious he is the more he tries to cover up."

"Claire, now is not the time to start babbling." Darien put a calming hand on her shoulder. "Hey, at least it looks like you've got a little while to get used to the idea before you have to face Bobby."

Hobbes figured he probably should be surprised by the way his emotions had altered. He hadn't taken his Zoloft or his Lithium since Brock came by, but he wasn't feeling uptight or nervous at all. Now that everything was arranged, and he'd made all his final decisions, he already felt at peace. The long years of torment fighting to keep up some semblance of normalcy were over. At last he would be able to really rest. Even grief was become irrelevant; the loss of any sense of being cared for by others had become a blessing. He was free in all things but being physically tied to life, and even that bond was soon to fall away.

He felt that he had chosen well in selecting this boulder for his final moments. He was totally comfortable sitting here, and was actually enjoying watching the stars spin down into the ocean. It seemed as though it were some sort of celestial dance to celebrate his coming emancipation. He was calm, relaxed, and completely at ease for the first time in more years than he could remember.

Into this euphoric detachment, however, there came an intrusion.

Someone was nearby. His old spy senses were trying to kick back in, but he quashed them. Let it be. The intruder was bound to go his own way soon. It wasn't as if anything could hurt him now.

The stars spun on their way toward his moment of liberation.

The other presence made itself more strongly felt. Yes, someone was climbing about on the rocks nearby. Well, they would either go away or they wouldn't, it didn't matter. They certainly had nothing to do with him, and no power over the tiny remainder of his life.

At any other point in that life he would have been disturbed, annoyed, when he was joined on the flat top of the boulder. Now it was meaningless.

"Uh, hi." The presence spoke in a voice that must once have been familiar. Old reactions caused his head to turn. Yes, a long, lean face, puppy-dog brown eyes, and ridiculous three inches of hair rising straight up from the forehead.

"Hey, Fawkes." He turned his eyes back to the more interesting show in the sky. The past had come to sit beside him one last time, but he was already gone, really, already drawn away by the future as it existed in the passing time until sweet dawn broke, and he made his departure.

"Care to talk?"

"Hmm."

"Look, man, I just wanted to apologize. I said some things I never meant, and I never even realized how crappy things were for you."

Hobbes couldn't really raise the interest to help the poor fellow out.

"Bobby, we can work things out. It'll all get better, I promise. I'll find a way to make it all better for both of us. Claire wants to help, too."

"I've worked everything out, my friend." Hobbes could hear the change in his own voice. Mellow, contented. Huh, did his voice always reflect what he was feeling inside? Maybe that was part of the reason people had always found him so difficult to be around. "Everything is going to be all right now."

"Oh, God, Bobby, you can't do this. Come on, this isn't the answer." Now a hand was gripping his arm with an almost painful strength. "Please, Bobby, you can't do this."

Can't do this? How could he possibly do anything else? It was all so right now. His world finally made sense.

Yet something drove him to try to explain. "I'm sorry, Fawkes. I can't turn back now. All the pain is behind me at last. You wouldn't believe how wonderful I feel."

Silence returned. The stars continued their beautiful inevitable spin toward morning.

Toward mourning? Where had that intrusive thought come from? He shook his head, trying to drive this alien sense of wrongness back out of his newfound serenity.

It began to fade.

"So this really is the solution, huh?" Ah, yes, Darien was there, wasn't he? "Damn, you know, it occurred to me a few times, but everyone keeps saying it won't help anything. Mind if I join you? Finally get rid of the gland, the quicksilver madness, the fear, the having no real life anymore..."

This was wrong! This was suddenly terribly, horribly wrong.

"Fawkes, what the fuck are you talking about?" He was back in the world with a vengeance. His partner needed him, needed his protection, and something deeper lodged in his soul than a yearning for release had sprung back to life.

"Hey, if you can just throw it all away and kill yourself, why can't I? Friends do together, right? If that isn't one of the great Hobbesian truisms, it should be. Like 'friends do for one another,' 'partners watch each other's backs,' all that stuff you've been teaching me for the past couple of years."

The pain was back, as if he were absorbing it from the eyes locked to his own. He could feel tears streaming down his face once more. Suddenly his partner, his best friend, had his long arms wrapped tightly around Hobbes' body, and he couldn't tell which of them, or maybe it was both, was shaking.

Now there was another set of hands on his back. When he turned his head, he thought for a moment that he had gone through with his plan after all, because it seemed an angel was gazing at him with pure love. Did angels cry?


End file.
